


Age Ain't Nothing But A Number

by Aurora Cee (SC182)



Series: Family Ties [1]
Category: Fast and the Furious Series
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, Grandparents & Grandchildren, Growing Old Together, M/M, Old Age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-13
Updated: 2015-04-13
Packaged: 2018-03-22 16:07:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3735115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SC182/pseuds/Aurora%20Cee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes Dom liked going slow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Age Ain't Nothing But A Number

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters herein. The main characters as well as any supporting characters are the property of their creators and Universal Pictures. Any deviation (or deviant behavior) from the originals, however, is mine.
> 
> Title taken from Aaliyah's classic first album. 
> 
> A/N: This story is set at the end of an AU where through the events of movies 5 through 7 and beyond, Dom and Brian raised Jack plus a few more.

Sometimes Dom was slow. Like waking up in the mornings, he did it with both eyes open, not quite startled, just a smooth transition to wakefulness. A trait that he hadn’t shaken many years and miles away from being young, dumb, and raging inside the bars of Lompoc.

He always took in the ceiling first, because he was a creature of habit and found no relief from the growing list of aching wear and tear from a life lived too rough and rowdy other than sleeping flat on his back. So when he awoke from the warm blanket of sleep, there was no rush—no hurry to be anywhere or do anything.

Dom rolled through a quick check of the status quo: a short stock of who, what, where, how was he, and who was with him that had become all too important these days.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, a fraction of a second slower than the day before. His knuckles dug into the too soft mattress, giving Dom the leverage he needed to lift off and lumber through the bedroom to the bathroom.

The short walk wasn’t a struggle, yet. Thank God. But his knees, left ankle, and his left shoulder still reminded him that despite his invincibility complex of youth being the size of Mt. Everest, he was and would always be very much human. The pop and grind of his left shoulder as he reached for his toothbrush and toothpaste said just as much. He wouldn’t even think about his goddamn prostate and the number of Hail Marys he’d done to ward off _that_ slow encroaching inevitability.

He dressed in his usual uniform: deep navy Dickie work pants, white tank, open uniform shirt with the embroidered DT logo across the right chest with his big silver cross swinging down from his neck. He dipped low to snag his steel-toed boots from their corner by the door and grimaced at the angry twinge in his low back that had already decided to greet him.

Dom sighed, because, seventy plus years of living, and yeah, his back was going to let him regret earlier life choices.

There was coffee going and bacon and eggs from the smell of it, but he already had the bland vision of a bowl of plain oatmeal waiting for him downstairs. His cholesterol was flirting with the lower boundary of high and oatmeal was apparently the preemptive strike to ward off a couple of pills, even less red meat, and a working ban on Corona.

Nonetheless, there was breakfast to kick off his day.

It had taken him thirty years, but Dom eventually made Brian into a serviceable cook.

Dom took the stairs like a champ, not bothering to grimace with each warm flare of pain as he landed on every third step. A little arthritic knee pain built character, even let him know that he was still alive and active.

He reached the bottom step just as Brian yelled, “Dom, breakfast!”

“Already here,” Dom called back, dropped his boots beside his chair and went to the counter to pour two cups of coffee. “Always on time.”

Brian gave him a sidelong look and cracked a half-smile, “Opening early?” Yeah, which was a long running joke now. Because Dom was semi or, truthfully, eighty percent retired.

“No, just planning to be ready in case I need to get my hands dirty.” They had a good crew to operate DT’s these days, apparently way more reliable than his crew or even his father’s had been. Dom’s job these days was providing mostly oversight and manning the counter. Being the respectable face of a family business. He got a kick out of finally being the respectable one.

Brian dished up one normal sized plate of bacon and eggs and one smurf sized one with a steaming bowl of oatmeal attached. Dom had seen churning concrete that looked more appetizing.

“Sure,” replied Brian as he surrendered the oatmeal saddled breakfast. “—and I’ll just add that to the list of funny things that Abuelo says. ‘m pretty sure the kids will get a kick outta that one.”

In exchange, Brian took the mug of coffee with the Coco-Cola emblem on it and began stirring in a dump truck’s worth of sugar into the black brew. The symbol was the closest thing the kids had found to match _Pop-Pop_ as Brian was called.

Dom’s mug, with the starkly painted on iron-like _Abuelo,_ was a personal source of pride.

“See, that’s the difference between Abuelo and Pop-Pop. Abuelo’s stories are funny and they teach important lessons. Pop-Pop’s stories always end with up with Pop-Pop and Uncle Rome barely living to see the next day or someone going to jail.” Dom had heard the stories Brian had told the little ones and summarily banned the ones from his time in Miami for a reason.

A bowl of fruit appeared at the corner of the table which made the corner of Dom’s mouth fold down in mild disappointment. Brian gave him a challenging look. “Yeah, and Abuelo’s stories end with fugitive status, man hunts, and how to take down cartels in five easy steps. Not quite the ABCs but still important, I think. Now eat the damn oatmeal before your arteries harden even more.”

The fruit got stirred in under a hairy eye. Some adjustments that came with age were easy; others were trials that Dom had to force himself to accommodate with the same glee that racing through fire and air used to bring him.

Pretending to not see Brian’s look of triumph as Dom spooned through the oatmeal and raspberries, which weren’t half bad, was an old habit. Like refusing to concede that Brian had ever beaten him behind a wheel which they both knew had happened more times than Dom had fingers and toes.

“Either way, we’re teaching them important life lessons.” Dom offered, watching Brian again who was bright and energetic beneath the morning sun. “Like knowing how to drive for the occasion--”

Brian swallowed his too sweet coffee with a smile. “Or knowing that cars pick you and not the other way around…”

Dom topped it off with, “Don’t trust a pretty smile and fast car until you’re absolutely sure that they know how to handle trouble.”

Brian ate his bacon with just a bit of smug tacked on to each bite. “So I’m trouble?” Definitely trouble, they both knew.

An avid member of AARP since they’d managed to hunt the pair of them down more efficiently than the Feds ever had, Brian got the best perks of aging—wisdom and maturing like a fine wine—without the added bullshit of a slow decline. A knee replacement after an on-the-job fuck-up a few years back but overall he was still golden.

Another spoonful of oatmeal eaten. “I only call it like I see it. And you’ve always been trouble. Good trouble. But still, capital ‘T’ trouble.” Best damn trouble he’d ever gotten into in his life. When Brian smiled, his eyes crinkled at the edges in a way that Dom always adored. Not quite crow’s feet, more like worn tread from a life spent laughing and smiling too much.

The five and half years between Dom and Brian had never felt like any real distance until Dom was facing sixty-five and Brian was still on the upper slope of fifty-nine. Now ten years later, Dom was over the threshold of seventy-five—far older than he ever expected to be—while Brian remained a crisp sixty-nine: all silver fox and lean muscle that still turned heads of women and men with pulses from twenty to hundred. He might have still dressed like a twenty-something seaside college student but Brian cleaned up well when he had to go in and play boss.

Dom wasn’t too shabby himself: still had muscles that weren’t quite as firm or large as boulders anymore but still strong enough to lever a few of the little ones over his shoulder without blinking. He could still play the game known as the little monkey school bus just fine. The little ones kept him strong. Not enough to fight the start of a paunch but sufficient for keeping his ego afloat.

Of all the crazy shit he and Brian have done together, having kids together topped the list. Even funnier was that in this reality, he was the lenient one that the grandkids came to while Pop-Pop was the hardass.

“So, what are you up today? More scaring the kids?” Dom asked, because he got a kick out of hearing how Brian inadvertently scared his young subordinates. “Brian O’Conner, big scary boss. I never thought I’d see the day.”

All of Brian’s young underlings were kids compared to them at any age. “I’ve got a strategic planning meeting and a few admin conference calls to make. Just the usual for the old guy that can kick all their asses but is technically too old to be in the field.” The baby agents or baby operatives, whichever was correct, were many times over babies when compared to the shit they used to get up to as civilians and otherwise.

“Sometimes you gotta show 'em better than you can tell ‘em.”

Brian answered with a smirk. “Just like telling the kids that Abuelo used to be fast.”

Dom triumphed over the oatmeal, leaving behind none in the bowl. “I’m still fast where it counts.” At least five hickies on Brian’s body spoke of Dom’s ability to still handle any kind of body. Dom would always be an expert when it came to Brian’s body. They might not give it a go every night, but when they did there was nothing wrong with the ride.

The sun reflected off Brian’s silver hair. “One word, Dom—Bengay.” Point for Brian. Sometimes, that stuff was the only solution to the fire in Dom’s joints after a long day of corralling customers, yelling at his kids, praising his grandkids, and losing his shit laughing over the stuff Brian put his baby talent through.

They still laughed just as easily, amused by the benefits of old age above all else. Brian had a monkey suit to slip into while Dom did the dishes in order to make the kitchen spotless again.

When Brian came back downstairs, he was rocking a light gray suit with a baby blue shirt that brought attention to his eyes. “You’ve got school bus duty.” He didn’t willingly rock a silk noose these days and opted for one of the few privileges that came with senior rank. He still looked good and sharp, hot enough for Dom to want to mess up his neat appearance.

Brian caught the heated meaning in Dom’s look and delivered a promise of his own for later after the house was theirs again.

Dom dried a plate and set it in the drying rack. “Been getting’ a lot of calls, too. So I’m thinking it’s time for another reunion. This time, you should pull the strings on gettin’ the party together.” A few calls meant that Rome was itching to come out to see his godkids and grand-godkids and just wanted out from being under the thumb of his own.

“Really, Dom? I think a family reunion’s on the low slope of complicated things.” After twenty years of jumping from progressively larger planes, trains, and automobiles, getting the entire family together—every extended branch—was a breeze.

Brian pulled up beside him at the counter for one last cup of coffee and a few more quiet moments. Making conversation between them had never been hard, but they each aired on the side of being quiet more often than not. Their small noises tended to echo more in the big spaces of thirteen twenty-seven now that they were the only two still roaming its halls. The little ones filled up the space in the afternoons and some weekends, but at sunset, it was just them.

They’d been around the world a few times over, had kids, had grandkids, and even had a few sizeable rainy day funds for the future squirreled away. Dom had traded the Charger’s NOS for car seats and coloring books without regret. Now forty-five years later, the value of going slow was finally understood.

There was a companionable brushing of shoulders first, then Dom’s traditional delivery of a kiss to the forehead as Brian wrapped his fingers in-kind around Dom’s cross. Both rituals to kick off a new day before they temporarily separated.

“Go scare your little agents.” Dom advised.

Brian stroked the cross once more before letting it fall back against the white of Dom’s tank. “And you go teach the kids about real cars…and their ABCs.”

Then Brian left, his own clock towards retirement dropping closer to zero with each passing day. Dom finished off the rest of the coffee and eyed the lone extra strip of bacon in the pan wistfully, almost regretting keeping his promise to mind his cholesterol.

So Dom went to work, ready to teach his mechanics old tricks that could still be pulled on something new and with a head full of highly edited stories for the juice box set. Retirement meant sharing his funny stories and remembering all the craziness that defined those moments where life and death danced on a fine line.

Dom left the house and headed to the garage for the Charger. It was still as beautiful as its fifth and final restoration.

He spied the combination of car seats and boosters in the back through the rearview mirror and smiled. “I think I’ll tell ‘em about the time I fought Uncle Luke.” Now, that would be an example of a quintessential Abuelo funny story. He’d even leave in the parts about Uncle Luke getting in a few good hits.

It felt like a cruising day. A day to just take his time while getting to work and just let the engine lull him as he went. There was no rush for him these days. A slow drive, like getting old, only offered another perspective: just a view of how awesome life had been and how good it still could be.


End file.
